“She’s around here somewhere. I’ll introduce you.”
Irene appears again—I swear this woman teleports—and practically shoves plates into Marcus and Cori’s hands. “Enough talking! You eat now! Everything is getting cold!”
“We just got here—” Marcus starts.
“You eat!” Irene is already steering Cori toward the table. “Youare eating for two now! You need the lamb, the potatoes, themoussaka—everything!”
Marcus looks at me helplessly.
I just shrug. “Resistance is futile.”
He sighs and follows Cori toward the food.
Leo slips his hand into mine, squeezing gently. “They’re great.”
“Yeah,” I say, watching Marcus try to politely decline a second helping of something while Tasia ignores him completely and piles it onto his plate anyway. “They really are.”
“Are you doing okay?” Leo asks quietly. “Not too overwhelmed?”
“Honestly?” I turn to look at him. “This is the best Thanksgiving I’ve ever had.”
He smiles a soft, private smile that’s just for me. “Good. Because my family’s definitely keeping you now. You know that, right?”
“I think I’m okay with that.”
“You think?”
“IknowI’m okay with that.”
He kisses my temple. “Good answer.”
The rest of the evening is a dizzying, beautiful blur. The uncles are deep in a passionate debate about the Mets and the cost of parking in Astoria, their voices rising and falling like the tide. The aunts are a whirlwind of motion, clearing plates only to replace them with tiny white cups of coffee that smell like burnt chocolate and jet fuel.
“They drink thisnow?” I whisper to Leo, eyeing the dark, sludge-like liquid. “It’s nearly nine o’clock.”
“It’s the Greek way, Annie,” he murmurs back, leaning close.
Across the room, Marcus is laughing with one of Leo’s younger cousins about a Knicks game, and Cori is surrounded by aunts who are now offering her prenatal advice in a mix of English and Greek, which she’s accepting with amused, wide-eyed nods.
I’m so full I can feel my heartbeat in my stomach. I’m genuinely considering the social ramifications of discreetly unbuttoning the top button of my skirt. Across from me, Emma, powdered sugar dusting her nose like war paint, is helping herself to what must be her eighteenthkourabiede.
Despina finally sinks into the chair next to me with a sigh, holding a steaming cup of the thick, muddy coffee. “Oof,” shesays. “I understand. To eat with Greeks is a marathon, not a sprint.”
“I think I hit the wall at mile ten,” I confess, and she chuckles.
Michalis appears, clapping a hand on Leo’s shoulder. “Leoni, come outside for a minute. We need a younger opinion on this…this malarkey your uncles are saying about Social Security.”
Leo sighs and glances at me. “You okay for a minute?”
“I’m safely anchored to this chair by approximately four pounds of potatoes. I’m not going anywhere.”
He chuckles, kisses my cheek, and heads off to join the fray. Despina watches him go, her expression softening behind a cloud of steam from her cup.
“He is different with you, Annie,” she says, her accent thick and contemplative.
I try to play it cool, but a warm, stupid pride blooms in my chest. “Oh? How so?”
She nods, staring into her cup. “With Rebecca…he was always so…careful. Like he was holding his breath. Waiting for her to be happy. With you, you make him laugh his real laugh. With you…” She gestures with her free hand, searching for the word. “He is just Leoni. He is…how you say? Home.”
